Czytaj książkę: «The Beauchamp Heirs»

Chapter One
March 1817

Raindrops rattled on the roof of the carriage that carried Miss Liberty Lovejoy and her sister Hope through the dark, slick streets of a rain-drenched London.

‘Liberty. I beg you...please do not do this. Gideon will never forgive you.’

Liberty wrenched her attention from the passing streets and resolutely swallowed down her own burgeoning doubt. She didn’t want to do this, but she had to. Someone must save Gideon from himself.

‘I have to do something, Hope. Gideon is running amok and it is all the fault of Lord Alexander Beauchamp. Gideon will be grateful to me for saving him from the results of his own folly. Eventually.’

‘Well, I do not think you are fair to embroil me without warning,’ said Hope tartly. ‘You said we were going to Hookham’s. I would never have agreed to accompany you if I knew you intended to visit Alexander’s father, of all people. He is a duke, Liberty. People like us do not just call upon a duke.’

Hope’s reaction did not surprise Liberty—she had given up expecting support from either of her sisters when there was any unpleasantness to deal with. They had been so young when their parents had died within days of one another and they had come to rely on Liberty and her twin brother, Gideon—just nineteen at the time—to take charge. Uncle Eustace was worse than useless...far too selfish to stir himself, even though he had been appointed their guardian. It was no wonder her entire family took Liberty for granted.

‘If you are afraid to come in, you may remain in the carriage while I speak to the Duke. I cannot afford the luxury of fear.’ Oh, but how she wished she could order Bilk, their coachman, to turn the carriage around and drive back to their rented London house. ‘It is my responsibility as the eldest—’

‘You are the eldest by a mere five minutes, Liberty Louisa Lovejoy, and Gideon now happens to be an earl.’

‘His conduct is more reminiscent of an overgrown schoolboy than a peer of the realm,’ retorted Liberty.

Since Liberty’s twin brother had unexpectedly acceded to the Earldom of Wendover last autumn his behaviour had grown increasingly exasperating. Was it really asking too much of him to help her to secure their sisters’ futures instead of careening around town and frittering his newfound prosperity on wine, cards and horses and in the pursuit of females who were no better than they should be? Besides, she missed Gideon and how they had worked together to ensure the survival of their family.

‘Well, I would say that being an earl makes him senior to you, do you not? Do not forget we are all reliant on his goodwill now if we do not wish to be banished back to Eversham with Uncle Eustace. I think it is very generous of Gideon to fund a Season for all three of us at the same time.’

Liberty clenched her jaw. If Hope only knew how much persuasion it had taken for Gideon to agree to his sisters coming to London in the first place...left to himself, she had no doubt her twin would have been content for his sisters to remain hidden away at Eversham for ever while he lived the high life to which he now felt entitled.

She stared out of the window, seeing neither the grey streets they passed nor the people hurrying along beneath their umbrellas, wrapped in coats and cloaks against the dreadful dark, cold and wet weather that had assailed the entire country for the past year. If it were not for Hope and Verity she would much prefer to still be at home, running the house for Uncle Eustace—her late mother’s unmarried brother who had always made his home with the Lovejoys—and living in quiet obscurity.

But Hope and Verity, at one-and-twenty and nineteen respectively, deserved a chance to better themselves in life. After their parents’ deaths there had been neither opportunity nor funds for the younger Lovejoy sisters to even dream of a come out, not until the unexpected death of a distant cousin and his two sons in a house fire and Gideon’s sudden preferment.

‘And do not forget what Mrs Mount said.’ Hope’s words broke into Liberty’s train of thought. ‘It is bad etiquette to call on your social superiors before they have left their card with you.’

Mrs Mount was the lady they had hired as duenna during their sojourn in London. The daughter of a viscount and now the widow of the younger son of an earl, she had many acquaintances within the ton and was thus perfectly placed to help steer the Lovejoy girls through the mysteries of polite society. Well, perfectly placed if Liberty chose to follow her advice. Which, in this instance, she did not.

‘It is a certainty that the Duke of Cheriton is never likely to leave his card for us,’ said Liberty, ‘so I do not see that I have any choice if I am to persuade him to control his son’s wild behaviour.’

‘I cannot believe that a duke will take kindly to a country squire’s daughter lecturing him on how he should control his son. Libby—it is not too late. Please, let us go home and I promise I will help you talk some sense into Gideon.’

‘But we have tried that, Hope, many times, and he ignores us. I fear his new status has gone to his head and that he will never be the same again.’

She was not even certain she much liked the man her twin had become. He had become secretive and thoughtless, and the closeness that had bound the two of them together throughout their childhood now felt as though it hung by the most fragile of threads.

It breaks my heart, this distance between us.

Liberty slid one gloved hand inside her woollen cloak and pressed it to her upper chest, rubbing in a soothing, circular motion, but the familiar hollow ache remained, as it had for the five years since her childhood sweetheart, Bernard, died.

Being back in London had resurrected those dreadful memories and, with them, the guilt. If only she hadn’t been so selfish by accepting the offer from her wealthy godmother to sponsor her through a London Season. If only she had stayed at home, Bernard and her parents might still be alive. At the very least she would have been able to say goodbye to her husband-to-be. A knot of disquiet had taken root in her stomach since their arrival in London...a nagging reminder of her selfishness and her failure.

Well, she would not fail Gideon, or the girls. And if it meant calling on a duke unannounced, then so be it.

In an unexpected gesture, Hope clasped Liberty’s hand.

‘You cannot protect all of us all the time, Liberty. Gideon is a grown man. I know you miss the old Gideon, but he will come to his senses, you’ll see.’

‘But what if he does not? What if I sit by and do nothing and he ends up destroying himself? And that’s quite apart from the damage his wild behaviour will do to you and Verity.’

Their background would be hurdle enough without Gideon casting a deeper shadow over them. Papa had been a gentleman, but Mama had been the daughter of a coal merchant—that whiff of trade would be a difficult barrier to overcome, according to Mrs Mount.

The carriage rocked to a halt.

‘This must be it,’ Hope said, her voice awed. ‘Goodness!’

Liberty was momentarily distracted as thunder growled in the distance, a stark reminder of the most terrible day in her life—the day she had learned that not only both her beloved parents, but also Bernard, had succumbed to the outbreak of cholera that swept through their village while Liberty had been enjoying dress fittings in London in preparation for her debut. She had not even glimpsed the inside of a ballroom before receiving that urgent summons to return home.

She thrust down the memory that still had the power to bring hot, stinging tears to her eyes and peered through the rain that streamed down the window. She gulped. This was Beauchamp House? It was huge. Magnificent. Intimidating. It was not a house, but a mansion. Stretching for five wide bays, it would swallow several houses such as their modest rented abode in Green Street. A new surge of doubt as to her plan swept over Liberty, but she had come this far and she wouldn’t allow herself to back away now. She gathered her courage, flung open the carriage door, grabbed her oilskin umbrella and, opening it, thrust it out of the door into the deluge. Lightning flickered and she braced herself for the next rumble of thunder. Was the storm getting closer? There were several seconds before the sound reached her ears—it sounded more distant than before and she released her pent-up breath. She gave herself no time for further qualms. Bilk handed her down and she hurried up the steps to the imposing front door of Beauchamp House, which remained firmly shut.

She lifted the brass knocker—so highly polished it gleamed even in the unnatural yellowish-grey afternoon light—and let it fall. Then she waited, irritation clambering over any nerves she felt at facing such a powerful nobleman. What was taking so long? ‘Where—?’

‘Might I be of assistance?’

She whipped around. A carriage was drawing away from the front of the house, presumably after depositing this man...her darting gaze settled on his face, half-shielded by his own umbrella, and she gasped, her stomach clenching with anger. She held fast to her courage and straightened her spine even though her knees quaked. This close, she was only too conscious of Lord Alexander Beauchamp’s daunting presence—his height and the width of his shoulders spoke of a powerful man.

‘I have come to speak to your father about your behaviour.’

He stiffened, his dark brows slashed into a forbidding frown. ‘I beg your pardon?’

As she opened her mouth, he held up his hand, palm forward, effectively silencing her. ‘Apart from the fact that you and I have never met, madam, I regret to inform you that the Duke is not in residence.’ He brushed past her to the door.

‘We may indeed never have met, my lord, but I know who you are.’ Liberty set her jaw. She’d recognise Lord Alexander Beauchamp anywhere, even though she’d only ever glimpsed him in the distance as he gaily led her brother astray. ‘The knocker is on the door.’ She summoned her very haughtiest tone. ‘That means the family is in residence.’

‘A member of the family, maybe, but that member is not my father. Now, if you will excuse me? You might relish being out in such weather, but I can assure you I do not.’ The door began to open. ‘I suggest you put your grievance into writing. If you have it delivered here it will be forwarded on to my father for his attention, you have my word.’

The word of a rackety rakehell!

The door opened fully to reveal a liveried footman.

‘Sorry, milord,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I was downstairs when I heard the knock.’

‘No need for apologies, William. This—’ Liberty stiffened, detecting the faint curl of his upper lip as His Lordship looked her up and down ‘—person wished to speak to my father. I have advised her to write to him.’

He handed his dripping umbrella to the servant and strode into the hall. Despair spread its tentacles through Liberty, squeezing her lungs. Coming here to confront the Duke had been a risk, but at least she would have had an opportunity to use her powers of persuasion. A letter could be all too easily dismissed. It was true she had never met Alexander, but perhaps if he knew who she was...? If she could appeal to his better nature...?

‘Lord Alexander! Please!’ She tried to dodge around the footman, who foiled her attempts using His Lordship’s still-open umbrella. ‘Wait, I beg of you.’

Once she succeeded in knocking aside that umbrella, she could see His Lordship had stopped and now faced her, a look of weary resignation on his face. Encouraged, she discarded her own umbrella on the doorstep and rushed towards him, darting around the still-protesting footman.

‘Please. May we talk? I am Gideon’s sister.’

His brows snapped together, forming once again a dark slash across his forehead. ‘Gideon? Who is Gideon?’

‘Lord Wendover.’

‘You have my sympathy.’

Liberty bridled. ‘If you think so little of him, why do you spend so much time together?’

He looked beyond her. ‘William—take the lady’s coat and bonnet, if you please. Ask Mrs Himley to send wine and cakes to the drawing room, and find a maid to sit with us—’ He looked Liberty up and down before fixing his gaze on her face. The chill in his light-coloured eyes sent a shiver through her. ‘For propriety’s sake,’ he continued. ‘You might have no compunction about calling upon your social superiors not only uninvited but also unchaperoned, madam, but a man cannot be too careful.’

The nerve of him! ‘My sister is in the carriage outside,’ said Liberty, shedding her dripping cloak. ‘She was too afraid to come in and speak to your father.’

‘Too afraid or too sensible? I suspect the latter. Perhaps you would be wise to pay more attention to your sister’s instincts.’ His bored tone sent Liberty’s temper soaring. ‘Invite her to join us, William, if you please. She cannot wait outside. But I shall still require a maid,’ he called after the departing footman.

He eyed Liberty again, from head to toe, and she squirmed inside. She had donned her best Pomona-green bombazine afternoon dress for this visit to the Duke, but His Lordship’s impassive inspection made her feel as though she was dressed in rags. It was not the height of fashion—she had been unable to reconcile herself to wasting money on new gowns when she had a trunk full of barely worn dresses and accessories from five years ago—but it was respectable.

‘One cannot be too careful.’

He means for himself! He is not concerned with my reputation, only that I might try to entrap him!

Liberty squared her shoulders and elevated her chin. ‘The drawing room, sir?’ She was proud of the haughty tone she achieved.

Utterly unruffled, he strolled to a nearby door and opened it. ‘This way, ma’am.’ His tone conveyed bored amusement.

She swept through, head high. How dare he treat her as though she were of no consequence? Although, she had to admit it was humiliation that spurred her rage. Undoubtedly, to a duke’s son, she was inconsequential. He followed her inside the elegantly furnished room with its vermilion-painted walls above white-painted wainscoting, its high ceiling with elaborately moulded cornice and three tall windows dressed with delicately sprigged floor-length curtains.

‘You are suffering under a misapprehension.’

She started at the voice behind her. She halted her inspection of the room and turned to find him closer than she anticipated. Nerves fluttered deep in her belly as she got her first good look at his pale silvery-grey eyes and the utter confidence they conveyed. And why should they not? Not only was he the son of one of the most powerful Dukes in the land but he was sinfully, classically handsome with a straight nose, sharp cheekbones and a beautifully sculpted mouth above a determined chin. Those silvery eyes of his seemed to penetrate deep inside her and yet they were as opaque as a silver coin, revealing no hint of his thoughts.

She stepped back, dragging her gaze from his. His beautifully tied cravat—how Gideon would appreciate such skill in his valet!—sported a simple gold pin in the shape of a whip and his olive-green superfine coat hugged wide shoulders and well-muscled arms. Beneath that form-fitting coat he sported a grey-and-white-striped waistcoat that did nothing to hide the heavy muscles of his chest. Her eyes travelled further, skimming the powerful thighs encased in cream breeches. He had the look of a Corinthian...the name given to gentlemen who enjoyed and excelled at physical sports such as riding, boxing and fencing, according to Gideon.

The face of a Greek God, the body of a warrior and a duke’s son. How could one man have so many advantages in life? Her gaze snapped back to his face, the sight of those powerful thighs imprinted on her brain. He was watching her. By the quirk of his lips, her perusal of his person amused him. Mortified at being caught studying him as a sculptor might study his subject, Liberty swallowed and then sucked in a deep breath. That did nothing to calm her nerves. Male and spicy, his scent filled her and those butterflies in her belly fluttered even more.

She forced a scowl to her face. This was Lord Alexander Beauchamp: the devil who was leading Gideon astray. She tilted her chin and looked down her nose at him, but the look that satisfactorily quelled the most persistent of tradesmen dunning for payment made no impression on His Lordship, judging by the arrogant lift of his eyebrows.

‘Misapprehension, my lord?’

‘Indeed.’

His deep cultured tones penetrated all the way inside her, stirring yet more fluttery sensations as she felt the full force of his attention.

‘Allow me to introduce myself.’ He bowed, the action somehow mocking. ‘Avon, at your service. Miss...?’

His words jerked her from her irritation. ‘What did you say? Who is Avon?’

‘Alexander is my brother. My younger brother. I am the Marquess of Avon, hence Lord Avon.’ His head tilted. ‘Do you require an explanation of courtesy titles? I understand you and your brother were not raised in aristocratic circles.’

Liberty’s face burned. Mrs Mount had warned them that their background would swiftly become common knowledge in the ton. No doubt His Lordship also knew her grandfather was a coal merchant. Without volition, her chin rose even higher than before.

‘I am not ignorant of such matters, sir. If Gideon ever has a son, he will take Gideon’s next highest title, Viscount Haxby, as a courtesy title to use as his own until Gideon’s death, when he will become the Earl of Wendover.’

‘I am relieved you have learned something since your brother was elevated to the peerage. The fundamental etiquette of introductions appears to have passed you by, however. It is customary to introduce oneself in return.’

Infuriated that he was right, her face scorched even hotter. Lord Avon might resemble one of the marble statues she had admired at the British Museum last week, but he was as patronising and pompous as any man she had ever had the misfortune to meet.

She stiffened her spine and again looked down her nose. ‘I am Miss Liberty Lovejoy.’